


Getting Stuffed

by Barb Cummings (Rahirah)



Series: The Barbverse [100]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Established Relationship, F/M, Food Sex, Holiday, Humor, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-20
Updated: 2009-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-03 11:30:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahirah/pseuds/Barb%20Cummings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once again, the answer really is pie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Getting Stuffed

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the same universe as _A Raising in the Sun_, _Necessary Evils_, et. al. (See the [Barbverse Timeline](http://sleepingjaguars.com/buffy/viewpage.php?page=timeline) for specifics.) It contains spoilers for previous works in the series. mere_ubu asked for Thanksgiving pie porn, and pie porn she shall have.

Spike had never quite got the hang of Christmas. Oh, he enjoyed the presents and the eggnog well enough, but peace on Earth and goodwill towards men wasn't really part of the vampire purview. Thanksgiving, now, that was a holiday that a demon could get behind. Hadn't thought much of it back in his lone wolf days, true, but now? Laze around the house watching telly, watch your in-laws snipe at each other, and gorge yourself into a tryptophan coma - a bloke couldn't ask for a better celebration than that. He'd lived among humans for so long that sometimes even he started to forget that he wasn't one of them, but goodwill towards men was still a stretch. Giving thanks for what he'd got in his own hot little hands, though - that he could handle.

'Sides, when you thought about it, it was the first proper holiday he'd ever spent with the Slayer. And the last, for quite awhile after, but at the rosy remove of twenty-odd years, Spike was willing to grant nostalgia points over historical accuracy. And any way you sliced it, lounging on the couch in the victorious aftermath of heroic gastronomic battle beat being tied to a chair whilst your mortal enemy's kid sis fed you lumpy gravy through a straw.

Beneath his arm, the mortal enemy in question yawned and stretched and snuggled up again. "We should patrol before Dad and Linda bring the kids back from the movies," Buffy murmured, making no attempt at actual movement. "Or at least clean up a little in the kitchen."

He thought he might be up to a leisurely amble around the perimeter of Restfield Cemetery in an hour or two, but since most of Sunnydale's demon population was as immobile as their human neighbors today, even the Slayer's overactive responsibility glands wouldn't go into hyperdrive if they left it till later. Much later. Like, say, tomorrow. And if the forces of darkness got a pass, the dishes could fend for themselves. "Can't possibly be much left to clean up. Swarm of bloody locusts, your family is."

Buffy knuckled him in the side, her reply muffled against his shoulder. "_Our_ family. No, there's a lot of turkey left and that extra half-gallon of pig's blood needs to be refrigerated, and there's at least one piece of pumpkin pie - "

Their eyes met. A second later they were both rocketing off the couch. Spike reached the kitchen counter a fraction of a second before she did, and whisked the pie-plate up over his head, out of Buffy's reach. His nemesis made a futile leap, then dove for his ribs. The Slayer didn't subscribe to Marquis of Queensbury pie-fighting rules. "Oi!" Spike yelled, narrowly evading her questing fingers. "No tickling or the pastry gets it!"

"No one," Buffy said ominously, "who's just put away three helpings of turkey blood and stuffing ought to be able to move that fast. It's unnatural."

Spike smirked. "Been in training."

"Come on! That's not a slice, it's practically half a pie! A twelve-inch, deep-dish pie! There's enough for both of us!"

"We'll see about that when I get done," replied Spike. He felt around on the counter behind him for a fork and helped himself to a large bite. "Now if you'll admit the best vamp won and leave me to my well-earned reward - "

Buffy pouted, then resorted to logic. "OK, that? Number one reason why pie should be mine. You have wonky vampire tastebuds. You can't possibly appreciate the deliciousness the way I can."

"Also got a wonky vampire digestive system," Spike pointed out. "I eat it, it's not so likely to go to waist, so to speak."

The perky smile on his beloved's face belied the dangerous narrowing of her eyes. "Are you saying I'm fat, _sweetie?_"

"Not at all, pet," Spike assured her hastily. "Just being evil. Greedy sods, us vamps. Grr, pie!"

"Well then," said Buffy, opening the refrigerator and emerging with a can of Reddi-Whip, "I guess I'll just have to find something else to snack on."

The thought that she was giving up far too easily had just time to cross his mind before Buffy gave the can a shake and dropped to her knees in front of him. Humming a jaunty tune, she popped the top button of his jeans (his belt had been a casualty of that third helping of turkey blood) peeled his zipper down, and freed his cock with one deft movement. Ready, aim, _skluuuuuursh!_ and she'd laid a trail of whipped cream down the length of him. "Go ahead, eat your pie," she said brightly, and set to work. "Ooh, looks like I'm gonna need more Reddi-Whip."

First time the Slayer'd gone down on him, Spike had had the awed sensation of a man in the presence of extraordinary natural talent. Twenty years' practice had honed that talent to mastery - Buffy Summers-Pratt was the Michelangelo of the blow job, and he the pliant, grateful clay upon which she practiced her art. She had him stirring in seconds, marble-hard in minutes, backed up against the cabinets and clinging to the countertop. Only supernatural reflexes and nerves of steel enabled him to drop the pie plate on the kitchen island rather than the floor as she systematically reduced every bone in his body save one to the consistency of Jello.

Buffy's little pink tongue swirled 'round the head of his eager cock, and her luscious, cream-smeared lips parted to take him in, licking, sucking, stroking, biting, making little yummy purry noises in the back of her throat. She couldn't swallow him down all the way - one of the disadvantages of being a well-hung chap - but her quick clever hands more than made up the lack, one on his shaft, the other cradling his balls. Fingers crept backwards, found their puckered, clenching target and struck: one, two, three warm little digits thrusting, stretching, probing till she found the sweet spot and attacked without mercy.

Spike's eyes glazed over, and he buried his hands in the glorious tumble of her hair and hung on for dear life, thrusts keeping time to exultant babble - "Oh, fuck, love, keep that up, come on, suck my brains out through my todger, so good, so fucking good, fuck, fuck, _fuck!_" He came with a sob and a shout, sliding down the side of the cabinet to the floor in a loose-kneed sprawl.

Buffy sat back on her knees, licking her lips and looking pardonably smug. "You didn't finish your pie," she said with an innocent bat of her lashes.

"Ah, well," Spike said faintly. "Was thinking there might be enough for two after all. And you might lose those britches while you're up."

Buffy returned (conveniently sans britches), wiping her fingers daintily with one of the wet-naps she had the uncanny ability to produce out of nowhere - probably the same place she kept her stakes - whenever confronted by a Sex Clean-Up Emergency. She set the pie plate down beside them and gave Little Spike an encouraging pat. Even these days, it generally took more than one go to wear him out, though it might be that the time between goes was increasing. All the better, though, since it gave him leisure to decorate her titties with whipped cream while Little Spike got his act together.

Soon enough Buffy settled herself astride his resurgent cock, beginning a gentle but insistent rocking. "Mmmmm," she murmured, undulating against him. "Did I ever tell you that when you're inside me it's like a five-course dinner? You make me feel so _full._"

He slid a hand up to the juncture of her strong skater's thighs, nestling a thumb into her damp, fragrant curls, and sought out the soft folds of flesh beneath as his lips captured one swaying breast. "Compliments of the chef," he mumbled around a mouthful of sweet, creamy nipple.

Buffy leaned back against his knees with a blissed-out purr while he kneaded her clit. Between the spasms of her long, rippling orgasms, and his short sharp intense ones, they fed each other pie: forkful after decadent forkful of rich silky custard and flaky crust. In the end Buffy was reduced to incoherent little moans of repletion, and the divine ache in his balls was more than matched by the one in his belly. The former, at least, was relieved when he came inside her for the last time.

"Ooof," Buffy groaned, rolling over to lie flat on her back beside him. A sticky dribble of melted cream trickled down her plump little tummy. She eyed the empty, crumb-free pie plate. "I can't believe we did that. I don't think I can get my jeans back on."

"You ask me, you're pretty fetching with without them." Spike leaned across and licked up the last drop of cream. His spent cock reclined across one thigh like a sleepy, sated python, and he was going to be washing whipped cream out of his pubes for the next week. No question about it, Thanksgiving was the dog's bollocks. He grinned and patted his own well-rounded stomach. "We'll work it off. Think we can manage to get cleaned up and back to the couch?"

"We're superheroes," Buffy said, stifling a small, ladylike belch. "We can do anything."

****

"Dad! Dad! There were giant bugs!" Alex yelled, bursting through the front doors as if pursued by same. "And the cowboys _blasted_ them! And - "

"Hey, hey," Hank Summers said, corralling his grandson with a finger to the collar, while Linda peeled a sleepy Vicki out of her sunsuit. "Let your parents sleep. You can tell them about the movie later."

Connie peered into the living room, where her mother and father were curled up on the couch, snoring in contented parental counterpoint. She wrinkled her nose in fifteen-year-old disdain. "God, I bet they haven't even moved since we left."

Her older brother shoved his glasses further up his nose. "They must have moved," Bill pointed out. "They were wearing jeans when we left, and now they're wearing sweatpants."

"Whatever." Connie waved a hand, dismissing the whole affair. "I hope I never get like that. Parents are such _slugs._"

**END**


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